An end before the end

I came to the conclusion that I have to try something else that’s different from what I have been doing for the last few years. But in order to make a great effort, I believe it is necessary to put an end to this blog. At least to symbolize my focus on the future, not the past.

There isn’t a single moment in my past that I wish I could relive. Though this sounds exaggerated, I assure you that I have thought excessively before saying that. Between the things I wrote here, and the things that happened before the blog, there are enough reasons to aim for something different in the future.

The best thing that could happen is that I would forget about the blog and everything that happened. I would have too many new memories to remember everything. Then, when I’m old, I will look it up and read it. Hopefully, in comparison with my better memories, everything in the blog would seem so distant. Hopefully, it would seem as if this blog was written by someone I don’t know but I sympathize with.

The worst thing that could happen is that everything will repeat, and I will just start another blog. I have an uncle that I respect who doesn’t seem to be living a good life. I see almost everyone in the family patronizing him and agreeing with whatever he says. Sometimes they would whisper to me after he leaves that he’s lost it. But he seems sane to me whenever I talk to him, and I always tell them that I don’t get it. I fear that one day they would treat me the same way they treat him (maybe it has happened already).

I am becoming 25 years old; I had to think for a bit to calculate how old I should be. I think I’ll write a few more posts. There are a few things I want to bury in this blog, and hopefully leave here forever. I’ll end the blog with the post I’ll write on my upcoming birthday.

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Airplanes, the worst of me, and the best of others

I have a developed a technique for overcoming my fear of airplanes. I look at the laughing children. I look the elderly. I look at the lovers and the loved ones. I conclude that no good force would allow this plane to fall, not even as a punishment for my inherent evilness.
I conclude that even if the plane did fall, I would grieve the people who had more to lose than myself.

Maybe what I fear isn’t the physical part of flying, but the memories I have in airplanes. It seems every crucial moment in my life involved leaving someone or something.
I remember the tears that forced themselves out of the face I held calm, as I left home back to college. I pretended to be sick and asked my older brother to stop at a clinic on our way to the airport. I wished they would say I had cancer, so that I could quit school and stay home without feeling like a failure.
I remember the interview with the big company. I remember saying to myself as they showed us around their building: “If everything I’ve been through was the price to get here, then I’ll gladly accept it.” The captain flew over the city and away, and my final share of that place was seeing it from afar. Nothing professional about a man with a crumbled suit and crushed pride.

But, for what it’s worth, I’ve never cried over the same cause twice. Leaving familiar places get less upsetting after a while. This is what the optimistic would call grit and perseverance. I think that’s exactly what I fear; not death, but the loss of life. With every flight I take, part of me is lost. The unfortunate way to become strong is to leave the weaker parts behind forever.

Describe to me the taste of honey

Describe to me the taste of honey,
offered by the hand of your lover,
when the night is just beginning,
and the moon is just listening,
when that night is all there was and all there will be.

Describe to me the feeling of the wind,
as it moves through your lover’s hair,
as it slows and as it moves faster,
as you inhale and exhale,
as the sight of of your lover’s waving hair expresses more life than your dearest breath.

I’ll describe to you my drink, and my moonless night.

200ml of poison, that’s enough to swim in pain, but not drown.
Enough to remember, acknowledge, and forget.
And on another indeterminate night, we shall recall again.
“We will pay the price of those memories as if it has never been paid before” (1).

200ml of poison, as I remember and forget.
Human when my mind reproaches, and human when it forgives.
My utmost expression of life is enough poison to remind me that I feel.
Have I told you the worst of all things?

Doesn’t it make you a little bit sad to know that we will be dead and forgotten?
That our dead bodies offer no home for memories?
Isn’t it more crushing to those with memories of sipping honey from sweeter hands?
The grounds that we walked on will welcome others. We will lie beneath them, passed and irrelevant. The memories will live neither above the ground nor below it.

Give me a sip of honey, so that I might live miserably by choice.
The tally is many bitter moonless nights,
and it cannot be repaid, not in one life nor in many.

Even the flood can’t save a yellow plant, and even the honey can’t soften a bitter heart.
The lesser pain is in knowing what wasn’t, the greater is in knowing what won’t be.
But the consolation, the weakest consolation, is that the happy and the miserable are equal after death.

 

(1) Source: The idea of repaying the price of memories as if they haven’t been paid before is something Shakespeare mentioned in “The sonnets and a lover’s complaint”

A long short story

How can I justify a greed for the unknown?
Well, it combines two misfortunes: ignorance and deprivation.

I want to be close enough to know what exists, but far enough to suffer alone without humiliation.
August 2014. “Is there anything out there that I cannot enjoy?”

The details of your beauty are too rich to be memorized at all times. I recall them a second, and forget them the next. Then comes the reconstruction.

Every time I see you, I get to be amazed by your beauty as if I have never seen you before. And every time, my heart beat accelerates trying to carry me next to you.
September 2014. “Unsent messages of a troubled lover (1)”

My pain, my pleasure. My share of heaven, and my due of hell. You have given me the highest amount of hope and fear.
September 2014. “Unsent messages of a troubled lover (2)”

See, the problem is, moths do not understand that they cannot acquire the light, and they keep crashing into it over and over and over. You might say I just need to “unlove” you, and to move on. But, see, the problem is, even if you were the most narcissistic woman, you will never have the slightest idea of the effect you have on me, and on every other moth
September 2014. “Unsent Messages of a troubled lover (3)”

I am aware of how my deceptive mind will tell me I will find someone like you, even though you are one-in-a-universe, one-in-an-eternity, One and only, unmatched and incomparable.
September 2014. “Unsent messages of a troubled lover (4)”

I will try to not talk about you, although I see you in the sun and the moon, in other women as the ideal they are trying to achieve (and are falling short of), and in other men as either their most valuable victory, their most humiliating defeat, or, for the unlucky ones, their most depriving ignorance.
October 2014. “An attempted closure”

I looked at you, but you only saw me. The way a falling leaf is seen this time of the year.

You were there, prettier and further from reach than ever. I was there falling all over again, as if I were seeing you for the first time.
October 2014. “The laws of probability”

My loneliness made me feel the length of nights,
and my conscience made me notice their gloominess,
and in a night as long and gloomy as tonight, I find myself surrounded by the most hideous of memories.
March 2015. “Nights like this”

Sleep does not tempt a heart whose ailment was longing.
The night is long, and I can think of you for eternity.
And if I silence my thoughts, I would still hear my heart knocking rapidly on a door that will never open.

Oh heart: die or beat slower. Let us rest either forever, or for tonight.
June 2015. “The memory of you, and a long night”

Oh, how far do you seem to me now.
Were you only in my imagination?
We will never meet, but have we ever met?
Have we ever met, my love? Have we ever met?
September 2015. “Memory or imagination?”

There is always an end, and it will only be when I can’t see those stars anymore.
Not like an unwatered plant that died of thirst. But like perfume that has completely spread into the air, becoming an infinitesimal part of it, but a part nonetheless.
February 2016. “The stars that rose above us both”

[The easiest part] is seeing you genuinely happy.
Why should it bother me?
Maybe it is something close to the definition of jealousy.

“Such is love; the easiest part of it is most difficult.”
June 2016. “The easiest part”

I look at you, and I avert my eyes.
I look at the sky, pretty beyond description and far beyond reach.
August 2016. “An unfortunate night”

It’s been two years, and I still remember the late days of August and the early days of September.
It’s wrong to remember after this much time, I admit.
That is why I fear time; not because it will make me forget you, but because it makes it more wrong to remember you.
But I ask of you: Do you remember when I said that the moon reminds me of you?
Time will pass, and I will be defeated.
I’ll see nothing in the moon except an ordinary planet, nothing in this Tuesday except a random Tuesday, and nothing in you except memories of feelings.
August 2016. “A random Tuesday”

Nothing remains but memories of feelings.

It must be part of the classic procedure. If the apology is pure, after it comes nothing.
September 2016. “A pure apology”

A Pure Apology

Nothing remains but memories of feelings. And only now do I have a more objective view, perhaps (somewhat) similar to yours.

I still remember you on occasion, when the moon is especially bright, or when the night is especially dark and missing something.

This is a pure apology; nothing but an admittance of guilt and an expression of regret.

I am sorry.

I guess this is the classic procedure, how things like this end; nothing out of the ordinary. Many stages, but at the end is a pure 100% apology. A letter devoid of anything but guilt, regret, and memories. A letter so unlike anything I have written for you in the past.
But I stand by my apology, I was wrong and I regret having written any of them.

It’s a near impossible task for me to write more, though I want to express more. I want to remain in touch, if only by writing letters that you cannot read. But how do I address you? A past lover, or a past opponent? A stranger ? but I cannot see you as a stranger anymore.

It must be part of the classic procedure. If the apology is pure, after it comes nothing.

 

A Random Tuesday

There is the two of us.

There is the distance between us, as if our separation was a physical consequence of repulsion.

There is the moon tonight, bright, unmatched, and incomparable. There are its many irregular reflections on the waves of the sea.

There are feelings, too complex to explain or to fully understand. But I understand fear, and my fears are coming true. I am beginning to question if I have feelings, or memories of feelings.

There is time. I remember you tonight, and I remember all the many times I remembered you before. I know that time will pass. Some people will become happy and go to heaven, some will become unhappy and go to hell, but, eventually, everyone will become nothing and go nowhere.

It’s been two years, and I still remember the late days of August and the early days of September.
It’s wrong to remember after this much time, I admit.
That is why I fear time; not because it will make me forget you, but because it makes it more wrong to remember you.

But I ask of you: Do you remember when I said that the moon reminds me of you?

Time will pass, and I will be defeated.
I’ll see nothing in the moon except an ordinary planet, nothing in this Tuesday except a random Tuesday, and nothing in you except memories of feelings.

 

A day to remember: after 12AM

The first girl that I knew on a personal level had her first baby this year. We were around 7. She used to invite me to play. Her mom welcomed me, and her dad was rarely around.

I was reminded of another girl recently as well. Our mutual friends tried often to “recommend” us to each other, but she didn’t seem interested and I didn’t change anything. I learned later that she was actually interested in my older brother.
I was asleep, and I was awakened by her voice outside my door. She has been married for a few years now. She was asking her 2 year old son: “Do you want to call daddy?”

Her younger sister, all I remembered about her is that she always asked me questions and always listened while looking me in the eye.

Here we are today: the older isn’t married to my brother, and I am engaged to the younger sister.

There’s also Claire. The first time I was ready, and the first time I envisioned a future and a family of my own.

I don’t know why I find it appropriate or relevant to talk about girls on my birthday. Probably because I will most likely be married by my next birthday.

I don’t know why everyone else around my age is having kids, or getting married in the first place. My grandmother a few days ago was asking me to hurry and get married. She was suggesting that it should definitely be no later than next summer.

She is the only one of my grandparents remaining.

Her husband, who I hated after his death, died a long painful death. It was a medical error, and his leg had to be cut. I visited him. He was on a bed, he was saying in a very low voice: “I’m thirsty, give me water.” My grandmother explained it was against what the doctors said. He had to be given small quantities because of something in this throat, I think. Then, He said that it was too hot, and he asked me to lower the degree on the thermostat. My grandmother waved for me not to do it, and she also explained that it was for his health. She asked me to pretend I was doing it, but I didn’t pretend. He was still awake, and if I pretended to lower the thermostat he would notice and think I was treating him like a child. I couldn’t do it to him.

My other two grandparents had alzheimer since I was a child until they died. I remember they gave me candy every time I visited. The only interaction I remember, is that my grandmother, my father, and I were sitting in her room. My father teased me by saying I should close my open mouth or I’ll swallow a fly. She hugged me and said that I was her grandson and that it would be my father who will swallow a fly.

I see my place within this family, and among us all I cannot find a happy person. Every time I meet them, I stare in their eyes. I know that everyone can smile, but no one can hide misery from their eyes. I don’t know if happiness doesn’t exist, of if it means much less than I hoped.

But at the very least, happiness should be whatever is enough to justify the costs of living. I have no justification, and I lived only because as a human, or as an animal, I fear death. I lived for no reason, and next year I’ll marry for no reason.

It’s depressing to know that after 24 years of living I am either ignorant or knowing of a very unpleasant truth.

An Unfortunate Night

I look at you, and I avert my eyes.
I look at the sky, pretty beyond description and far beyond reach.

If only I were a star, and I could part of the sky. I would be her partner, burning to add brightness to her nights so that she may never be lonely.

It’s unfortunate that I wasn’t a star.
But it isn’t unfair. And I know that anyone who looked at the sky, wished to be her star. The sky is one, and the gazers are many.

And maybe everything I say, and everything I could say, is repetitive and unnecessary.

I said this before, but let me say more of what is repetitive and unnecessary:
I wish that I was never born, that I never saw the sky, and that I never sat down gazing at her helplessly, repetitively, and unnecessarily.

When she rained, I cried hoping she couldn’t tell my tears from her raindrops. And when she stopped, I looked to the ground wishing to be devoured instantly.

 

Aren’t we looking at the same sky?

As I looked, as I asked with no words,
As the eyes took away every cover.

As you looked for some things in the sky,
I looked down to the ground, it was lower.

You said no, with no words, and I listened
cold as winter,  and as scorching as summer.

Days have passed, and you’re gone, and I’m here
And the sky never looked any better

But I wonder if you saw the same sky,
and I wonder if you looked any better

There are those who look up to the sky,
and there are those who look at one another.

How old am I?

It’s frustrating, to have so much to say but to not be able to say it accurately.

But let me try.
I don’t anymore think it would be unfortunate to die.
I know my birthday is coming up soon, but am I 23 or am I becoming 23?

Either way, I think I have lived for too long. I wish I died when I was 18, when I was hateful and angry towards everyone but myself.
I remember my 18th birthday. At midnight, the early moments of being 18, I was chatting online with a female friend. She told me I would remember her whenever I thought of my 18th birthday. Well, it’s funny that I only thought of my 18th birthday when I’m about to become 24 (or 23) years old.

I partially agree that you become wiser as you age. I say that as I acknowledge that my 18 years old tried his best. With all the hate I have towards my life, I still admit that my 18 years old self really tried his best. Which leads me to the painful realization: It couldn’t really have been otherwise. When I look in the mirror, I don’t hate what I did, I hate what I am.

It must be difficult to hear for my 18 years old self, but I wish I was someone else, someone who could have been otherwise. I still mourn every loss my 18 year old self had, but in addition I mourn the losses between then and now.

Could I be considered a terminally injured soldier on the battlefield, asking: please let it end?